Thirty-NineFor a second or two he was only aware of the rush of sweet-smelling air in his face — of pine, vanilla, a green woodsy aroma, and the glare of the sun’s rays on the vertical white ribs of rock below. And further off, a brief glint of water. His feet hit the cliff face with a crunching thud. On impact he curled into a ball and rolled sideways, slowing his downward momentum, scrabbling madly for something, anything, to grab and hold. His last thought was that if he had to die, he’d seen a hundred worse ways that men less fortunate than him had breathed their last. And then there was nothing.
How long he hung draped between the branches of the small pine he had no idea. He forced his eyes open and looked gingerly around him, hardly daring to twitch a muscle in case he set himself
